


Devotion is a Heavy Cross

by Dr_Madwoman



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: AU, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Late Night Conversations, PTSD, Romance, Scandalous holding of hands/gazes, wwi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Madwoman/pseuds/Dr_Madwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes what is broken cannot be mended. Then again, sometimes it can. A story detailing the nighttime outings of Miss O'Brien and Mr. Lang, and what became of them. AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I would like to sing someone to sleep_

_By someone to sit and be._

_I would like to rock you and croon you to sleep_

_And attend you in slumber and out._

_I would like to be the only one in the house_

_Who would know; The night was cold._

Rainer Maria Rilke

  
Mr. Lang was not well, though the average sheltered soul wouldn't be able to say _why_. He bore no battle scars, sported no bandages, and his limbs were straight and true as a soldier's ought to be; yet he carried himself carefully, as if mindful of a hurt hidden from watchful eyes. He would slip away even while he sat beside you and look at the walls like he could see through them, see the Hun on the other side. He had his body intact, which was more than many of his brothers in arms had, but one couldn't say that he was truly _whole_.  
  
No, Mr. Lang was not well at all.  
  
It wasn't easy to tell; one had to know what to look for. Sarah O'Brien, who felt the absence of a brother every hour of every day, knew the look and sound of shell shock. She saw the tremors, she saw the way Lang twitched at sudden sounds, and she saw how quickly he could anger, and it was like having Michael home again, a trembling wreck of the man he once was.  
  
She knew what to look for, but looking and seeing did little good. The bloody doctors didn't know what to do for men like Lang and Michael O'Brien, and there was little more that a lady's maid could do. It hurt to look at him, sometimes, but Sarah O'Brien wasn't one to be content with helplessness, not when there was something she might do. And she would do something this time, even if she had to pour out her own blood in doing it.  
  
She owed it to him.  
  
There wasn't much to be done in the daylight hours, with prying eyes on all sides and not an ounce of understanding to go around, but then he likely wouldn't welcome any real help during the day anyway. Lang had only been in Downton for a month or so, but already Sarah knew he would take her overtures as pity, or worse, flirtation, and a man of his sort would tolerate neither. But at night, when the house was silent and there was nothing to occupy the mind or hands…he couldn't even keep his pride, then.  
  
Nearly every night after that first nightmare Mr. Lang would wake them all with his screaming, and something of a routine had developed where Carson would lumber out of bed, rouse Lang from his night terror, and then leave him to his own devices afterward. It was clear the poor bastard never went back to sleep; he looked like a damned corpse nowadays, with his eyes ringed with dark circles and his skin pale as chalk. No one seemed to pay his condition any mind, all of them being too dense to notice or too wrapped up in themselves to care. It was clear that the others thought of Mr. Lang as yet another duty to be seen to, nothing more, and it made Sarah sick to see it.  
  
And so one night she lay awake and waited, straining her ears for the sound of Lang's shouts from the men's hall. The screaming began shortly after one in the morning, and was soon silenced. No one else in the hall stirred from their beds, and slowly Sarah got up from her bed and slipped out of her room. She approached the door separating the women's hall from the domain of the men and carefully knelt down to feel for the lock. She pressed her thumb against the cool metal of the door-handle to mark the place, reached into her robe's pocket and slipped out a few spindly slivers of steel that had served her well over the years. By feel alone she slid the picks into the lock and began to work, pausing now and again to glance at Mrs. Hughes' door.  
  
With a final deft twist the lock clicked and the doorknob turned under her hand, and all remained silent in the housekeeper's room. With a smile of professional pride Sarah opened the door and stepped into forbidden territory, closing the way behind her before padding down the corridor. Four doors down, on the left, a sliver of light spilled across the floorboards; Mr. Lang was awake now, and she could hear the creak of restless feet pacing the length of the room. Sarah raised her hand to knock and hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek as she reconsidered.  
  
What, exactly, would Mr. Lang think of her showing up uninvited to his room? It was strange, almost _ghoulish_ , to come knocking in the wee hours of the morning. He'd surely think she was mad, or trying to take advantage, or something equally terrible and degrading, and the risk of being caught in here with a thief's tools in her pocket was uncomfortably high…  
  
Sarah's thoughts were interrupted by a soft sound, stifled so that one could barley catch it. It may have been a sigh, or a sob, but she made up her mind and opened the door to Lang's room. She found him leaning against the far wall, haggard and drenched in sweat, and he staggered upright at her approach. He looked at her as though not sure if she were friend or enemy, his eyes sunken and wary. She stayed very still, her hands where he could see them, and waited.  
  
"What are you doing up at this hour?" he demanded, shifting his weight from foot to foot in agitation.  
  
"I might ask the same." Sarah returned, and for the first time she realized he was shaking. Her hands began to reach out- to touch, to soothe- but she got hold of herself before he could take note. Lang, however, didn't seem to be paying any mind to her; he was back at pacing, moving in the space between his bed and the closet in a way that reminded her of an animal locked up in a cage, his head carried low and his hands clenching.  
  
"How long d'you manage to sleep most nights, Mr. Lang? After the dreams."  
  
Lang glanced at her, and _God_ , had Mikey ever looked half so exhausted as this? It made Sarah wonder how long Mr. Lang had been at the front, and what he had done there. Or what had been done to him.  
  
"An hour or two, sometimes a bit more."Lang mumbled, running a shaking hand over his face. A moment later he tried at a smile, his mouth struggling with the near-forgotten expression.  
  
"You shouldn't be here, Miss O'Brien. If you're found, they'll make assumptions. I won't have you losing your job over me."  
  
"You can't just be left on your own like this." Sarah stated firmly, and her tone brooked no argument. "A 'andful of restful hours of sleep isn't enough t'keep a person runnin', not in a house like this. You'll compromise your 'ealth, if you carry on like this."  
  
Mr. Lang gave a great shuddering sigh and shuffled over to his bed, moving like he was a century old. He sat down and put his head in his hands, his shoulders sloping down in defeat.  
  
"I'd give whatever's left of my soul for just one night of decent sleep, Miss O'Brien, but my mind works against me. Every time I close my eyes…"  
  
"You're back there." She finished softly.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"An' nothing 'elps."  
  
"Nothing save work, and there's nothing to keep me busy so late." He said wearily. Sarah was caught in the wake of a memory, then; she was eighteen years old and sitting out behind her childhood home, the stars wheeling overhead and Mikey pressed close on one side while Joe dozed on the other, with Brendan hovering disapprovingly behind them all.  
 _  
There's Orion- a 'unter, he is, with a great bow. D'you see 'im, Mikey?_  
  
"Come along, Mr. Lang."  
  
He stared up at her, still caught in that distant country between waking and dreaming, but put up no resistance when she closed her hands around his tense bicep and hauled him to his feet. He staggered, leaned against her for a moment, and his feverish skin seared hers through her nightgown.  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Don't be. Now hush, else Hughes will be leapin' down our throats faster than thought."  
  
She led them from his room and gently towed the door shut behind them, all too aware of his tremors, his uncertain steps. Both paused a moment, not daring to draw breath as they listened for the sounds of disturbance from the other rooms. Without question being caught together in their nightclothes would get them sacked, no matter how artfully Sarah might lie, or how innocent the truth was. Yet no one stirred behind the featureless bedroom doors, and Sarah cast Lang a brief smile before leading him out of the men's hall on silent feet. Over a decade of service had taught her how to travel like a ghost through these halls, unnoticed to the point of invisibility, and for once she was glad of it.  
  
Sarah and Lang reached the stairs, and they moved down through the dark with care, her hand on his sleeve to guide him over creaking boards. He followed her with a gosling's trust, neither questioning nor protesting when they reached the bottom and she towed him towards one of the servants' doors. Out into the kitchen yard, through another door, and at last they found themselves out beyond Downton, the grass wet underfoot and darkness pressing in all around. Sarah sighed, relaxing slightly now that they were out of the house, and glanced over at Lang; she could make out his silhouette, shoulders back and head tilted up towards the sky.  
  
The stars burned so brightly overhead, and she thought again of those nights, so long ago, with the night stretching infinitely above her and her brothers, all of them whole and innocent still.  
  
Sarah tasted copper in her mouth, realized she was biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. Shaking her head, she tugged at Lang's sleeve and urged him to walk beside her.  
  
"Come, Mr. Lang. Let's walk. How much d'you know about stars an' the like?"  
  
As it turned out, quite a bit. She still knew more.  
  
Their nighttime walks became yet another routine for them; Sarah would wait until Carson had woken Lang up and everything had settled again, then pick the lock on the door parting the male and female quarters and steal into his room to escort him outside. Out in the moonlit world they'd do as they liked, smoking and walking over the lawns like they owned them, speaking of Orion or some story they'd been told as children. Most nights, Lang would eventually be calm and tired and ready to sleep again.  
  
Most nights, but not always.  
  
Sometimes the stars were not enough, and the shaking would persist long after they'd left the servants' quarters behind. He would stare at Sarah then, slipping off into his own mental landscape without warning and losing himself there. She was at a loss until one night, almost a month into their bizarre arrangement, when she saw that he was taking one his bad turns again; an odd idea came to her, and she forced down her misgivings long enough to take a drag of her cigarette and say,  
  
"D'you dance, Mr. Lang?"  
  
He started, blinked slowly at her, as if unsure that he heard her correctly.  
  
"Do I…what?"  
  
"Dance. Any skill at it?"  
  
"None worth speaking of," he admitted. "There were a few country dances when I was younger, but nothing worthy of a ballroom."  
  
Sarah nodded as if in thought, sucked in another lungful of smoke. She glanced up at Lang.  
  
"I could teach you." She said, fighting to keep her voice steady. She had Lang's full attention now, confused though it was, and to her horror she felt herself blushing slightly.  
  
"Don't mistake me, Mr. Lang; I've no improper intentions toward you."  
  
"I think we've both left improper behind a few weeks ago, don't you?" Lang said, and he gave her an honest-to-god smile then, one she couldn't help but return. He moved closer, and Sarah did her best to quell the odd fluttering in her stomach.  
  
"I take it this is a yes?"  
  
"Yes. What are we learning?" he inquired, meeting her gaze unwaveringly. He was staying, thank God, though she knew he was still shaking some. Taking a final drag, Sarah threw her fag on the grass, ground it out under her heel and gently grasped Lang's wrist.  
  
"What do you say to a waltz? Nice and simple."  
  
He nodded, shuffled closer still and grasped her hand in his; Sarah swallowed hard, wondering at herself and the sudden sensitivity of her skin. She shivered when Lang rested a paw of a hand on her hip and spoke sharply,  
  
"Hand a bit higher, Mr. Lang. We don't know each other that well."  
  
"Apologies, Miss O'Brien."  
  
She waited for him to settle his hand, warm and solid between her shoulder blades. He seemed afraid of her somehow, or maybe afraid for her; he was at least two heads taller than her, and quite a bit broader besides, and bloody _hell_ but his feet were big.  
  
"Steady, I'm not made of porcelain. Now, you follow me, understood? Move your feet like this…"  
  
Sarah started them off, her hand on his shoulder steering him gently into the proper steps, humming slightly as she tried to recall was Lady Grantham had taught her all those years ago. Lang wasn't bad for a novice, she'd give him that, though he seemed so worried about stepping on her that he was tripping himself up. She only shook her head and gently corrected him, careful to maintain the space between them. After a few minutes, Lang relaxed a little and asked,  
  
"Did you ever dance with your brother?"  
  
Sarah nearly stumbled at that, but held herself steady and darted a quick glance up at him. He was smiling a bit, and she realized he was trying to tease her. Somehow it was encouraging instead of irritating.  
  
"I'd have never lived it down if I had." She snorted, and he chuckled at that, the sound rattling dryly in his mouth as though it had not been used in a long while. Sarah couldn't explain her sudden surge of pride –in herself for causing the laugh, in him for finding it again- but she wouldn't question it for now.  
  
"Pick your feet up, Mr. Lang- you're a gentleman, not a corpse."  
  
"Right."  
  
Mr. Lang progressed fairly quickly, moving with more ease and confidence as the minutes passed them by. He lost himself in the steps, the silent music they moved by, leaving everything else behind. The night wind cooled him, and dimly Sarah noticed that the shaking had stopped. It couldn't last, however; soon they both stumbled from tiredness, and the wind began to pick up.  
  
"Time to 'ead in, I think. We'll likely freeze otherwise." Sarah observed, drawing her robe tightly around herself. Lang nodded and yawned hugely, like a child might. Without much more ado they both turned and headed back towards the towering Abbey in a companionable silence, too tired to think much on their situation. Lang held the door to the kitchen yard open for Sarah, and when she passed by him with a mumble of thanks he caught her hand.  
  
"Thank you." He whispered, squeezing her fingers gently and smiling. Sarah stared at their linked hands for a moment, her body warming curiously. After a few perilous seconds she shook her head and smiled back.  
  
"There's nothin' to thank me for, Mr. Lang. Let's 'ead in before we drop."  
  
She led the way back into the house and up the winding stairs to the attics with Mr. Lang close behind. He held her hand the whole way, and she let him.


	2. Chapter 2

_You Marshals, gilt and red,_

_You Ministers and Princes, and Great Men,_

_Why can’t you keep your mouthings for the dead?_

_Go round to the simple cemeteries; and then_

_Talk of our noble sacrifices and losses_

_To the wooden crosses._

-          Excerpt from _Great Men_

He awakened from an uneasy sleep in the purple, formless hour just before dawn and lay quietly beneath the sheets, staring at the ceiling and taking stock.

His surroundings, clean and dry and far from bombardment.

His arms and legs, whole.

His senses, clear and trustworthy for the moment.

His heart, beating. Yes, beating still.

Everything was quiet.

Carefully Andrew Lang slipped out from under his blankets and lowered himself onto the worn floorboards, where he began the sets of sit-ups and pushups that had occupied his mornings for the last few months.

They’d told him there was no need, back at the hospital. You’re out, the nurses said, you needn’t bother. Soft upbringing and a sheltered training period still hadn’t taught them that sometimes a routine, any routine, was all that kept one from the bottle or the rope.

Twenty of each, executed in total silence and with a blank countenance. Twenty was enough to quiet the restlessness of his limbs and ease his thoughts enough for him to rise and make ready for the day. He moved quietly about his room as he washed his face and neatened his hair, every action practiced and sure. It was only when he flicked open his straight razor that the tremors began and he faltered, eyes fixed on the flash of steel.

He remembered Frank Dodges, and carefully laid down the blade. Andrew sat on the edge of his narrow cot, his back to the corner, breathing steadily until the shaking of his hands subsided and the memory dimmed again. Eventually, he raised himself up and finished the task of shaving, careful not to look too closely at his wan features.

Smooth-faced and smelling of cologne Andrew dressed himself, paying near obsessive attention the alignment of his tie, the cuffs of his shirt and jacket. There was still so much time before his Lordship rang; it was just now five, and only the kitchen girl would be astir.

For a fleeting second Andrew thought of Miss O’Brien, wondering if she too was awake now after a restless night, if she would welcome some company before the others roused themselves.

_Idiot_ , he chided himself. _Idiot, she’s likely sleeping, trying to make up for the night hours she wasted on you._

Besides, he had no means of opening the door to the women’s hall and if he did, it was likely that he’d get himself caught somehow. Really, it was amazing how Miss O’Brien managed; Andrew supposed that no matter how many patrols he had been on, how quiet he was by nature, he simply could not compete with the lady’s maid’s much smaller feet.

Restless, Andrew opened the closet and rummaged around in his kit bag for something to read, pulling out a collection of essays so ragged and worn that the title could no longer be read on the cracked leather.  He’d loved the language contained in these pages, not very long ago. Andrew thumbed through the pages, finding places where he had underlined passages, or put a mark near a certain sentence. Here and there his handwriting could be seen in the margins, the pencil smudged slightly.

Andrew read the comments of his former self and revisited paragraphs that had caught him, seeking something familiar and recognizing nothing.

“Six sharp, Mr. Lang!”

Andrew’s body jerked at the rap on the door, heart knocking against his ribs as his blood thrummed through his ready limbs. It lasted just a moment, but he was left shaken and cold. Reluctantly, he left the safety of his room and went down to breakfast, brushes and shoehorn tucked under his arm.

He ate quietly, eyes trained on the table. He dared not look at Miss O’Brien for fear of giving them away somehow; a lingering glance, a too familiar tone would be all it took to set Mrs. Hughes on their trail.

He was too ashamed to look at Mrs. Patmore, and it was a relief when the wall of bells began their wretched clanging.

Mechanically, Andrew climbed the stairs and proceeded to Lord Grantham’s dressing room where he laid out his Lordship’s uniform and smoothed out the creases. He ran his eyes over the seams and buttons, finding them pristine, and made certain the bars were in order on the left breast.

Lord Grantham entered the room and nodded a greeting to Andrew. He spoke not a word throughout the dressing, too preoccupied by whatever it was that bothered posh folk to pay any mind to his valet.

That suited Andrew well enough, and it was with a sense of relief that he accepted his Lordship’s dismissal and headed back to the servant’s staircase, where he spotted the scullery maid scurrying abut in a frock that was neither sooty nor smudged with flour. It was a sign of Sunday, and Andrew had to bite back a curse. Though they did not wear gleaming medals and scarlet coats, men of God could surely be as pompous and careless as any officer, and thrice as effective as any patriotic poster imploring for enlistment. Downton Village had been rather dubiously blessed with such a vicar, and it was fast becoming a trial to suffer through the Sunday service.

_Might as well make something of it_ , he mused, and immediately he went into the servant’s hall to find Miss O’Brien.

“Might I walk with you down to the village?” Andrew asked, keeping his voice low as the other servants bustled by them. Miss O’Brien raised her head and gave him a searching look, her eyes moving over his tired features.

“It’s a free country, supposedly.”

And so he walked beside her down to the village, the pair of them a little separated from the others. They didn’t talk; by some unspoken agreement true conversation was reserved for their nightly walks. He spent his time staring ahead, letting the animal part of his mind lead him so that he would not have to think overmuch. Occasionally he’d chance a sidelong look at his companion, noting the straightness of her back and the sureness of her stride. He thought that Miss O’Brien was a manly sort of woman, in a way. Though she was quite feminine in form she moved with determination, chin up and eyes cold. She spoke with sharp words and little sympathy, ready to lay into most of the downstairs staff, and Ethel in particular, with Andrew seeming to be her one exception. He didn’t think he’d ever met a woman so forthright and so lacking in the usual female virtues of gentleness and flattery.

Andrew quite liked her.

They entered Downton Village, the church steeple rising above them out of the early morning mist as they approached. Andrew sighed and readied himself, trying to banish the unease he felt at being around so many others.

They filed into the church, passing over stones worn smooth by years and years of faithful feet, and without much thought Andrew slid into a pew beside Miss O’Brien, his knee knocking slightly against hers. He lifted his head to look out over row after row of people; it was almost a comfort, to see the lines. That creeping, half-wild part of his brain had been taught to know lines, where no questions were asked.

The vicar passed up the aisle at a slow, nearly funerary pace, his hoary head held high as he moved among his flock. A hush fell over those gathered as he ascended to his place and shuffled his notes; the vicar straightened and stared down at all of them, prolonging the moment with an air of satisfaction. Andrew suspected that the old codger liked feeling as though he held total power over his audience, who could neither speak nor leave without his word.

“We are in the midst of the second year of the world’s Great War, and in these days of darkness and dread it is difficult to maintain the flame of faith. As news of English casualties and German cruelties reach the home front to make heavy the hearts of mothers and wives, and as reports of lewd and immoral behavior at the Front come to light, it may be easy for some to throw up their hands in despair and declare that God has abandoned us.”

The vicar paused for affect, surely aware that he had captured the attentions of even the drowsiest church-goers. Already sensing the direction the sermon was taking, Andrew wondered if anyone else thought it funny, that this wizened little toad of a man had got it in his head to play the blustering general and deliver a patriotic speech from his pulpit.

“Now more than ever it is _vital_ that we do not allow our hearts to fail us, for if the courage of her people falters then surely Britain herself will fall. We must raise up our flagging spirits and rejoice, for is it not written that our foes, who have drawn their swords, bent their bows and cast down the helpless and just, is it not written that the Lord shall _laugh_ at them and drive their own blades into their hearts? God favors the soldiers of England and her allies, for they are righteous! His eyes are upon us and His ears are open to our cries!”

The old man was starting work himself into a lather, his beady eyes now aflame with a passion that had not been seen in many a year, and his enthusiasm was wakening an energetic murmur amongst the crowd. Andrew kept himself absolutely still, his every muscle clenched tight with the effort of not listening or seeing. Inside there was nothing save for the soothing numbness.

“Though the enemy is savage and the elements harsh the warriors of England need not fear, for the Lord is their light and salvation. We have taken arms against a terrible enemy and God grants His favor to the lads in khaki and blesses them as they march forth from their motherland to do their sacred duty. Can we citizens, good and faithful Christians all, do anything less in the face of such courage? Can we abandon our own duties in this crisis?”

There were negative cries from the congregation, their voices bright within the stifling confines of God’s house. Andrew found himself marveling at them, thinking that they could have not known even a single soldier, let alone lost one, if they allowed themselves to be swayed so easily by pretty words. Silent as stone, Andrew Lang kept his eyes fixed on the madman standing over them and tried to make himself deaf to what was going on around him.

“Let us stand as one with our fighting men! Let us raise our voices in praise and encouragement of our young warriors who go to do God’s work with nary a doubt or complaint! Let us pray for them today, every soul beneath this hallowed roof, and beg the Lord to lend them His strength and guide them to victory against the Huns!”

He wasn’t sure when it happened. In one moment Andrew was seated beside Miss O’Brien on the cramped pew, yet now he was on his feet and there was rage burning wild in his heart, pounding in his veins. He thought of nothing save of screaming at them all, damning them for their stupidity, but found that the words refused to come.

Andrew shut his mouth against the bile rising in his throat and turned to stumble from the pew, deaf to the scandalized outcries of the others and Carson’s reprimand. He left the church and stood for a moment in the street, winded and disoriented as his blood pounded in his ears. He stepped forward on trembling legs, needing to walk, to _escape_. He forced himself to move, taking long strides that ate up the ground. Head down and eyes forward like a good soldier he began to make his way back to Downton Abbey.

_Keep breathing._

“Mr. Lang!”

He focused only on the expansion and contraction of his lungs, drawing in each breath and holding it.

“Mr. Lang, turn around!”

So long as he kept moving, so long as he had a path under his feet he would be fine, he would be

“For Christ’s sake, _slow down_!”

At last Andrew registered that someone had been calling after him for a while now. Preparing himself, Andrew turned to face is pursuer and was shocked to see Miss O’Brien come towards him at a near run, her skirts gathered in her hands and her hair unraveling from its rigid bun.

“ _Christ_ , but you walk fast. I ought to beat you bloody for makin’ me gallop after you like some damned racehorse.” She snapped, coming to a stop beside him and making a futile effort to restore her hair to its previous state. Rather stunned, Andrew could only stare at her for some time before he recalled himself.

“There was no need for you to leave the service, Miss O’Brien.”

“For the love of God, you’ve seen me in me nightclothes; call me Sarah.” She muttered, clutching at her side as she tried to regain her breath. Andrew slowly shook his head.

“You ought to go back; no use in having Carson after you too.”

“Bollocks. You’re in no state to be left on your own; look at you.”

As if to illustrate her point Miss O’Brien laid her hand on his shoulder, and for the first time Andrew realized that the tremors had spread throughout the entirety of his body. Shame flooded through him in a hot wave, forcing him to duck his head. From the corner of his eye Andrew saw Miss O’Brien’s features soften- sad, but not pitying.

“Let’s find a quiet place to sit, eh? Give us a moment to settle ourselves before we get back and the schoolmaster twists our ears.” She said with a wry smile, and Andrew forced a smile in return. They began walking again, Andrew checking his stride to keep pace with Miss- with Sarah. Somehow they had fallen back into their nighttime routine, and he leaned towards her when she took his arm and guided him off the road towards a copse of trees. They settled under a birch, and Sarah dipped her hand into her skirt pocket and withdrew a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

“Steady you up.” She said, and shook the last fag into his hand. Andrew took the cigarette and tried to hold his fingers steady as she struck a match and held the flame to its tip. He breathed deep, choked a little on the smoke, but found himself the slightest bit soothed. It was a familiar habit, smoking.

Satisfied that he wasn’t going to inhale the fag by accident, Sarah eased herself back against the tree’s peeling bark, watching him and keeping her thoughts to herself for the time being. Andrew offered the cigarette to her.

“Thanks.”

She took it, raised it to the red curve of her mouth and breathed deep. Andrew watched her, noting the color of her lips and the twisting of the smoke as she exhaled. Her eyes reminded him of the sea in autumn.

“I don’t blame you for walkin’ out, not in the slightest.” She said, tilting her head towards him. “It’s disgustin’, to hear the bastard prattle on about duty an’ God’s work. Get the feelin’ he wants to go over himself- pity that he can’t, really, on account of his advanced years.” She snorted, taking another drag.

“It’s more than that.” Andrew muttered, and he could feel the anger clotting thickly in his throat. “He prays for God to grant our side victory. It’s all well and good for the folks at home to wave paper flags and cheer for their Tommies, but to pray to God for a victory, as though it’s something you just have to _ask_ for? Not a one of them understands what a victory means over there, or how…how _empty_ it is.”

Swallowing hard Andrew took the cigarette from Sarah’s fingers and raised it to his lips, his skin going clammy even in the warmth of midmorning.

“You win by slicing a man open, or shooting him or blowing him up. You fight, and you lose half a regiment to gain a trench and a few feet more of mud. There are thousands, if not millions of mothers all over England and the Continent who will never see their sons again, all for the sake of a victory. Funny how the vicars and generals never mention any of _that_.”

“I suppose they try to pretty it up. They say there’s no better honor than to die for your country.” Sarah replied, and the bitterness in her tone told him she’d heard that speech before.

“There’s no such thing as _honor_ or _glory._ It’s a little fairy tale they hand you alongside the gun, so you maybe don’t blow your own brains out two weeks in.” Andrew spat.

She had nothing to say to that; she could hardly call him a liar, and they both knew it. Andrew swallowed, twisted the remains of the cigarette between thumb and forefinger and watched as the tobacco crumbled. For a second he wanted to turn to her and tell her that he was rarely ever like this, back in his old life. He’d been a much better man in those days.

Instead, he said,

“We’d best head back. Her Ladyship’ll need tending, an I’ve got packing to do.”

She gave him a sharp look and a sharper frown, her eyes apprehensive.

“And just where d’you think you’ll be goin’?”

“A bedlam house, likely.” Andrew murmured. “That’s where my sort belong, yes?”

“That’s _enough_.”

Miss O’Brien rose to her feet in one fluid movement and stared down at him in the way a hawk might stare down at a rabbit.

“You’ll not get anywhere by sayin’ things like that, Mr. Lang. You’ve done nothing worth dismissal, an’ if you keep on blatherin’ like this, I’ll-.”

Andrew stood and towered over Miss O’Brien- over _Sarah_ \- and seeing her tilt her head back to glower at him made him pause and blink. He forgot, sometimes, that she was actually quite a small woman; the way she carried herself made him believe she was at least his height.

“It’s kind of you to think like that, it is. But I think you and I both know that I’ll not be allowed to stay now. It was bad enough with the dinner and my episode in front of the general- Carson won’t abide another humiliation.” He said quietly, with a sad half-smile to soften the words. Her expression grew stony

“You leave that to _me,_ Mr. Lang, an’ spare yourself the packin’.”

With that, she dusted the grass and ash from her skirts and drew herself up like a queen.

“Come on, then.” She snapped, tilting her head towards the road.

And somehow, Andrew Lang managed a smile and followed after her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, the poems, characters and places are not my own.


	3. Chapter 3

_Heroes, cowards, commandants, defectors,_

_the sword is not your sole protector,_

_though you swear by it. I can’t defect_

_its point forever, but while I’m still intact,_

_I’ll conceal you, and reveal to you_

_the secret of defeat I have proven true_

_(though you may think of this as forfeit):_

_To destroy a power, don’t meet it. Absorb it._

-Excerpt from _The Shield_

by Melissa Range

It was as old and elegant as a waltz.

Sarah went about her duties with professional precision, quick-footed and nimble-fingered as always. She smiled for her mistress just as usual, but it faded more quickly, and the corner of her mouth tucked down in a faint frown. She was glad to see Lady Grantham, always, but her spirits were dampened this morning, laid low by some problem or other.

She helped her lady select her morning gown with a distracted air ( _my apologies, m’lady, the crimson’s being cleaned, I’d forgotten)_ and a slightly furrowed brow. Her lady fixed her with a long, thoughtful stare when she thought she wasn’t looking, one perfect black brow raised high in question.

“My dear O’Brien, is everything well? You seem anxious this morning.”

Sarah glanced up at her, _quite_ surprised at the sudden observation from her lady.

 “It’s nothing, m’lady, I wouldn’t have you troubled on my account.” Sarah murmured, giving a small smile before quickly averting her gaze again. From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of hurt pass over Lady Grantham’s features.

“How could I be anything but troubled with you so out of sorts, O’Brien? I can hardly be expected to sit idle if there’s a chance I might help you.”

_You sweet, daffy thing._

Sarah paused for a few seconds (a nervous hesitation, of course) before saying, very quietly,

“I’m not certain there’s anything you _can_ do, m’lady.”

The Countess reached out and gently grasped Sarah’s hand, and it took everything she had to ignore the heat spreading from the touch. Her fingers were squeezed in a cool soft grip, and Sarah let herself stare into those sky-eyes.

“Come now, O’Brien; we got Thomas home safely, you and I. I’m certain we can manage again.”

Sarah’s throat was tight, and she had to swallow a couple of times before her voice would cooperate. She smiled at her lady, small but genuine, and let the tension being to ease from around her eyes and mouth.

“It’s Mr. Lang, m’lady. He’s not well, an’ I’m worried for him.” She admitted, and Cora looked up at her in sympathy, her thumb brushing soothingly over her wrist.

“His nerves, you see; the fightin’ he did over in France damaged them somehow, an’ all these officers millin’ about the house isn’t helping him any. I suspect it all reminds him of the trenches in some fashion, an’ he’s havin’ difficulty in performing his duties because of it.”

“I assume his disastrous first night serving in the dining room is a product of his illness?”

“Exactly, m’lady. What is most upsetting, though, is how the others downstairs are treatin’ him.”

Sarah’s disgust was evident, and her lady frowned to hear such news.

“Surely no one is being _cruel_ to him because of it?” the Countess asked, and Sarah shook her head and reached for the hairbrush, her eyes carefully lowered again as she began to set Cora’s curls to rights.

“Not cruel, exactly, but there’s certainly a lack of understanding. You know ‘ow Mr. Carson is; he won’t make allowances even during wartime, an’ Mr. Lang confided in me that he suspects he’ll be asked to leave soon, after incident with the general an’ at church an’ all.”

In the vanity mirror she saw the Countess press her lips together in irritation, her lovely eyes going sharp like flint.

“It hardly feels fair to turn out a former soldier over a few simple mistakes- and one can’t fault him for them anyway, the poor man. Really, Carson’s an incomparable butler and a true asset to Downton, but I rather think his exacting nature is getting out of hand.” She said sternly, rapping her nails against the table for emphasis. Sarah could hardly nod- it was her ladyship’s place to question the old codger, not hers- but she couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride in her lady.

Outwardly, she sighed and carefully combed her fingers through the Countess’ silken hair.

“It might not be fair, m’lady, but what’s to be done? His Lordship will want the house run as efficiently as possible.”

The lady canted her head very slightly to the side, her gaze distant. She turned her head, a thoughtful sort of expression crossing her features.

“Perhaps if Mr. Lang had a little more time to _adjust_ …”

Sarah looked up, fixing her lady with her undivided attention.

“Yes, m’lady, that would be all he needed. It’s all too much just now, an’ I know Mr. Lang would be an excellent worker if we just gave him a _chance_.”

The lady favored her with a smile of unrivaled fondness, and reached out to pat her hand.

“It shouldn’t be too hard to bring Lord Grantham around,” the lady of the house mused, and the smile turned impish. “After all, if he protected Bates why shouldn’t he do the same for Mr. Lang? He, at least, can wait at the table if need be, with a little extra time.”

“Do you suppose he’d be willing to do that, m’lady?” Sarah asked, trying, with some difficulty, to remember how _hopeful_ was supposed to look. Lady Grantham gave a light, trilling laugh at that and turned back to her vanity mirror.

“When I am through O’Brien, he will be _happy_ to.”

“Thank you, m’lady.”

And Sarah meant it.

  
***

Midday saw Sarah O’Brien bent over her work in the servant’s hall, her fingers cramping slightly as she finished off another row of stiches. She sighed, curled her hands into fists the ease the ache, and sat back in her chair to cherish the rare peace that had descended downstairs. Life had taught her to take whatever pleasures she could, whenever she could, and she intended to revel in the lack of clumsy hall boys and nattering maids.

Her peace was short-lived as approaching footfalls announced the arrival of another; to Sarah’s relief it was only Lang, as quiet as ever and bearing a look of faint befuddlement. A smile twitched at the corner of Sarah’s mouth.

“What’s gotten to you?”

He started slightly and blinked at her, clearly too preoccupied to have noticed her.

“I just came away from the strangest talk with his Lordship.”

“Oh?” said Sarah. Lang nodded and, with only a little hesitation, set his polishing kit down near Sarah’s workbasket and settled beside her at the table.

“It was a queer thing; the minute I stepped inside his dressing room he up and told me I never need worry about having a job here. Said that it’s understandable that I be a bit shaken, and that I’m to carry on and try to gain my feet again.”

He fell silent, lips pressed tight and his eyes fixed on the scarred tabletop. Sarah wanted to grin, to pat his shoulder in congratulations but his frown gave her pause.

“Surely that’s a good thing, though?” she inquired, turning towards him in her chair and watching his profile. A muscle twitched in Lang’s jaw, and he lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

 “You needn’t have done it,” he muttered. “It’s hardly fair, making the Earl pull strings.”

Sarah was rather surprised that he recalled her promise of help, but then she was beginning to realize that Lang took in more than he let on. She sniffed and flicked open her work basket to give her hands something to do.

“To hell with that- this is a mote compared to what his Lordship was willing to do for Bates. Besides, one could hardly call it _fair_ to show you the door.” She said primly, winding a bit of ribbon into a bundle and tucking it away again. Lang returned his attention to the table, tracing his fingertips along the grain.

“Feels like pity.”

“It isn’t.” Sarah snapped. “It’s sense. You said yourself that you need to work, and there’s no point in fretting over it now.”

She saw Lang nod, a slight bow of his head that conveyed defeat more than it did understanding.

“I suppose so.”

He hesitated, carefully laid his fingertips against Sarah’s wrist.

“Thank you.”

Sarah stared at his hand, larger and rougher than hers, and tried to withdraw as covertly as possible.

“It’s not me ought to be thankin’.” She muttered, trying to quell the curious flutter in her stomach. In the end, though, she couldn’t help her smile.

 

***

Andrew continued to walk Downton’s halls, his position guaranteed despite the misgivings of everyone, including himself. Life continued, not at all normally, but onward all the same; Andrew did his best to avoid the officers swarming over the estate, kept his eyes averted from scarred flesh and accusing stares.

He could almost hear their thoughts as he passed them in the halls, could almost feel their disgust.

_Who are you to be walking about, whole and hardy? Who are you, to cower here while decent men live and die in horror each day? Who are you, to live while boys are cut down by the hundreds?_

If he were to share any of this with Sarah she would tell him he was imagining thing, he was sure, brisk and full of false confidence. Her strange kindness irked Andrew even as it comforted him; he deserved none of it, not the nighttime visits or her protection.

He was a man, not a lost child in need of coddling. He ought to be able to stand and endure on his own, and yet nearly every night he met the lady’s maid to talk of nothing or dance or simply sit in silence, using her to ward off dreams of Frank’s red smile and the boy.

She said nothing, but Andrew could see the shadows deepening around her eyes with each passing day, and the guilt stung. He was little better than a leech, a weakling draining money from the estate and energy from one he hoped to call friend.

Worst of all was how everyone pretended that nothing was amiss. Every day brought more men burned, torn apart like meat, some of them screaming in the night, and yet Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson thought only of the pantry or them upstairs, and the maids prattled on and on about nothing. And Andrew sat silently, fighting to keep another outburst locked inside so that none of them would have cause to whisper later.

 _Lunatic_ , he’d heard from the hallboys. _Mr. Hyde_ was Ethel’s contribution, and _coward_ hovered on the lips of all others.

Everyone, upstairs and down, was too polite or too wary to say any of it to his face, but Andrew noticed the little things, the tiny acts that gave them all away; his Lordship’s impatient sigh each time Andrew’s hands shook during a dressing, the way Mr. Carson’s mouth would turn down in a frown with every meal that was served without someone to play footman.

The yawns Sarah tried to hide throughout the day, and the weariness of her eyes.

It all began to add up, the whispers and the dreams and the long stares of the wounded. Andrew held himself together as best he could, for as long as he could, but he was a man, merely that, no saint or Dickens-penned hero. He was a man, and it was all bearing down.

It came to head one day when Sarah strode into the servants’ hall and began gathering cups and plates together, drawing Andrew out of one of his distant spells.

“What’s all this?” he asked, wary. Sarah glanced back at him as she stacked the cutlery on a tray, all brisk efficiency and nimble fingers.

“Props.” She said simply, and added a gravy boat to the stack. Andrew regarded her with a blank countenance, fingers flexing restlessly against his knee.

“Putting on a performance, Miss O’Brien?”

She smiled at that, there and gone again in a second, and jabbed a spoon in his direction.

“No, but with luck you’ll be.”

Andrew frowned at her, growing suspicious. The answer that was even now occurring to him was not one he liked, not at all.

“What d’you mean?”

“There’s comfort in the familiar, or so I’m told; the way might be smoother if you got a bit of practice in.” she explained, straightening up with her burden gathered close.

Andrew’s stomach twisted, and quick as flame the anger was there inside him, hot and bitter like bile. He curled his fingers into his palms and clenched tightly, stared as his knuckles went white.

 _Why are you suggesting this?_ He wanted to ask. _Don’t I humiliate myself enough as is?_

“You think you’re clever?” he snapped,  

“What-.”

“I’m not a damned dog, Miss O’Brien; you can’t fuss over me and teach me tricks.”

Without looking at her, Andrew stood up from his seat and gathered his book and his lordship’s damaged waistcoat, intent on leaving as quickly as possible. He was aware that Sarah was staring at him in shock, her lips parted and poised to demand an explanation.

“I can’t be mended up with a few quick lessons, like a schoolboy. What I’ve got can’t be fixed, and if you were smart you’d leave off with your interfering and let me alone.”

Andrew turned and stalked through the door, leaving her there with her tray, disappointment thick in his throat. She ought to have known. Of all people, she ought to have known how demeaning he’d find the idea of tottering around, playing pretend.

He climbed the stairs, nearly taking them two at a time, and sequestered himself in his small room in the attics. His hands were shaking again; he curled them into fists, squeezed tight, hoping to still the tremors.

Miss O’Brien should have known.

Andrew kept coming back to it, this simple idea. The anger was dying some, and his hurt was rising to the forefront; he’d thought he’d found someone who understood, at least a bit, someone who knew it wasn’t a matter of squaring your jaw and trying harder.

 _She thought she was being helpful,_ he reminded himself.

 Andrew settled on the edge of his narrow bed and dropped his head into his hands, fingers threading through his hair.

He shouldn’t have snapped at her; she had been so kind to him. Crossness was hardly the way to repay her. He ought to apologize.

Andrew knew it would be better to wait a little, to make sure his temper had calmed. Besides, it would disturb Sarah if he hurried down and apologized so soon after storming off- it disturbed _him_ , frankly, how quickly his outrage came and went. It wasn’t natural for him.

Luncheon was in a half hour; Andrew resolved to keep his distance until the time came, and passed the minutes in trying to read, as he had left his workbasket down in the servants’ hall. Restlessly he thumbed through worn volumes, taking up a poem and abandoning it again in a moment. His mind was going off without him again.

_Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,_

He pored over the book, the pages yellowed with age, flecked with the stains of mud and other things. It hadn’t belonged to him originally. He took care to keep from looking over his shoulder, into the far corner.

_Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,_

_I am looped in the loops of her hair._

A half-dozen times or more he must have glanced over those lines, and Andrew shut the poems away again. With his back resolutely to the corner he stood and left the room, intent only on making his apology.

When Andrew reached the hall, however, he soon learned that it wasn’t so simple as saying sorry and extending his hand in friendship; when he stepped into the room Miss O’Brien looked straight through him as though he weren’t even there, the corner of her mouth tugging down. Andrew sat at the long worn table and was greeted pleasantly enough by Anna and Ethel, the latter waggling her fingers at him in a way that was likely supposed to be flirtatious. The lady’s maid didn’t acknowledge him at all, and ignored his hello in favor of draining the last of her tea and rising, silent as a wraith as she swept through the room.

“Oof. Who trod on her tail?” Ethel tsked. Andrew’s heart sank, dread settling coldly in his stomach. For a moment he wondered if he had just sabotaged his one fledgling friendship in just a few thoughtless moments, but he dismissed the idea.

Surely it would take more than that?

By supper the situation had deteriorated, with Sarah rebuffing Andrew’s every attempt at conversation, her eyes like chips of ice on the rare occasion she condescended to look directly at him. He tried his utmost to be friendly, inasmuch as he was able to be, but he received nothing but wintery silence for his efforts, and he felt as though a wall had been carefully constructed between him and her. She excused herself early, claiming a headache, and Andrew watched her go with something like an ache building in his chest.

Andrew left the table soon after that and wandered into the kitchen yard for want of anything else to do- his Lordship, at least, didn’t have the same volume of clothes in need of mending as his wife. He patted his pockets as he stepped into the cool evening air and sighed- no cigarettes.

“Mr. Lang.”

Andrew turned and saw Corporal Barrow leaning against a tower of packing crates, cigarette pinched between the long fingers of his good hand, catlike amusement hanging over him like a cloak. The valet nodded in greeting, said nothing, and stood in the chill evening air with his hands in his pockets. He was conscious of the Corporal watching him, aloof as always, and after a while the younger man lazily straightened up and left his place by the crates.

“A kicked dog looks happier than you do.” he drawled, sighing out a haze of smoke and gesturing towards Andrew with his fag. The older man stared, somewhat surprised that his high and mightiness had noticed.

“I’ve fallen out with Miss O’Brien.”

“That you have.” The younger man agreed, and if Andrew wasn’t mistaken the Corporal sounded almost _cheerful_. “If I were you, I’d get back in her good graces smart-like. Miss O’Brien’s about as gentle as a rockslide when irate; take it from one who knows.”

Andrew already knew better than to ask for advice from the Corporal- it would be like trying to get a straight answer from a cat or a general. Moments later the lad chucked aside his fag and sauntered back inside, leaving Andrew to stand miserably against the wall.

That night, when the walls of his trench collapsed in on him and Frank smiled his red smile from the dark, Andrew was awakened by Carson as usual, and lay trembling in his bed as he waited for Sarah’s light footfalls outside his door.

She never came, though he waited from hour to hour certain that it would be just a moment more, just a moment and she would be there, gruff but forgiving, and he would be safe with her. Alone in the dark he felt like a little boy again, and like a boy he wept, exhausted and abandoned.

He didn’t sleep again that night.

***

The maids and hallboys gave Sarah a wide berth the next morning, watching her warily from the corners of their eyes as she took her place near the head of the table. She ignored them, staring to the tabletop with eyes that burned from tiredness. It seemed like her insides were clenched tight and turned to stone, though she tried with everything she had to pretend otherwise.

 _Where would he be, if not for me?_ She thought darkly, stabbing at her toast with the butter knife. _Fine way to behave. Fine way to treat the only one who gives a damn._

She stopped her thoughts dead, freezing every muscle in her body as she carefully, carefully tried to turn her mind away. A dangerous road, that one. She’d only sow pain if she let herself think that way.

She reminded herself that she really oughtn’t be thinking like that anyway. He was the valet, she was the lady’s maid, and that was that; she had no obligation to him. Let him fend for himself, if that what he wanted. It was no concern of hers.

Sarah stayed immersed in her forced inner calm until she registered that a sort of nervous hush had fallen over the hall; she surfaced from her thoughts but did not turn about to see what had shut everyone up. Lang had a way of instilling unease among the ranks just by existing.

“Gracious, Mr. Lang, are you alright? You look a bit peaky.” Anna asked, all polite concern, and Sarah almost swung her head around to look. She stopped herself.

_That’s his business._

“I’m fine. Didn’t sleep much, is all.”

Christ, he sounded like a neglected house, all creak and rasp. Sarah fussed with the milk, pouring too much of it into her tea as she smothered that uneasy spark of guilt inside herself.

_You left him scared and alone in the dark, just because he snapped at you a bit._

It was a relief when her Ladyship’s bell sang out; Sarah bolted up from her seat without a word to anyone, snatching up her workbasket and turning on her heel with a nary a glance back. She devoted herself to Lady Grantham’s grooming and dressing with particular singularity, focusing on the soft slide of hair through her fingers, the sound of a skirt as she shook the imagined wrinkles out.

Lady Grantham didn’t complain at the slowed pace, thankfully; rather she seemed to enjoy it, as it gave her more time for chat, which Sarah responded to with only half a thought. She was confident, nearly an hour later, that she had been away long enough to allow Lang to be called up by Lord Grantham, and hoped she’s have a spare moment to relax downstairs with him out and about.

Fortune did not favor her, however, as Lang was seated at the end of the table when she arrived in the servants’ hall, a pair of his lordship’s socks spread out in front of him and a darning egg waiting off to the side. He looked up as she entered, straight _at_ her as opposed to through her, and Sarah did her best to stare just over his shoulder, as if he wasn’t worthy of her notice.

“Good morning.” He said softly, and Sarah seated herself a rather pointedly a few chairs away, her lips pressed tight. He lowered his gaze and sat quietly, looking for all the world like a little boy who had recently been switched. Anxiously, he plucked at the ragged holes in the toes of the socks.

“Nasty, this. It’s his lordship’s ruddy dog again; can’t keep her teeth to herself.”

Sarah opened up her button box and began shifting through the bits and bobs within in a businesslike fashion, building a lofty fortress out of pretended industry. Lang sighed, and she wanted to snatch up the darning egg and crack him upside the head with it; what right did he have, to sound so put upon?

She did her best to keep ignoring him, but he spoiled that for her by rising from his seat and carefully taking the chair beside hers, his somber gray eyes fixed on her in a most unnerving way.

“What?”

He held her gaze and licked his lips nervously, as if he were buying time as he hunted up the right words. He stretched out a big, long-fingered hand towards her and said, softly and simply,

“It was beastly of me to shout at you. You’ve been so kind to me, and it was a terrible way to repay you. I’m sorry.”

Sarah gave him a long hard stare, willing up the wall of ice, the slow burn of anger, striving for that poisonous drive that had goaded her forward so many times…and then she let go of it all with a tired sigh, too full of pity and shame to use any of it now. Enough was enough.

“Apology accepted, Mr. Lang. I was no angel meself, leaving you in the dark as I did.”

“You had every right to, considering.”

“No, I did not. Nobody deserves to be alone with that, not even snappish buggers like you.”

They lapsed into an uneasy silence, neither looking directly at the other. Shyly, Andrew reached out to her again, and this time Sarah laid her hand in his; without her knowing it a faint smile stole across her lips when her folded his fingers over hers and squeezed.

“We are still friends, I hope?”

“Yes, I suppose we are. True friends, now; first quarrel tests it.”

Lang smiled at her, and it was different from the smiles he’d given her before, which were wan and made more of obligation than genuine pleasure. This was a right little grin that made his eyes bright and revealed boyish dimples, and she nearly laughed to see it.

“I’m glad.” He said, and she could tell he meant it. Sarah looked to their joined hands on the tabletop and noted, idly, that she hadn’t had her hand held this much since Christ was a boy, and how funny it was that a near-stranger was doing it.

She patted his wrist and slid her fingers from his, forever mindful of scrutinizing eyes. He flexed his hand and rested it in his lap and Sarah thought that they both might’ve been sorry to lose the contact. She quashed the idea before it could be formed fully and pressed on, business as usual.

“You realize, surely, that I wasn’t aiming to tease? I was dead serious about the lessons.” She stated, plain as paper, and she leveled a stern sort of look at him that used to work wonders on the twins and Mikey when they were small- when they were big, too, come to think of it. Lang said nothing, but Sarah saw a muscle in his jaw twitch, as if he were biting down on what he wanted to say.

“We’ve all got our pride, Lang, don’t think I don’t understand that; I do, don’t mistake me, but you’re the one going about worryin’ that everyone thinks you’re useless.”

 _That_ one made him angry, she could see it; head lowered a bit, eyes dark like a thunderhead, his hands clenching tight before him. Well, let him be angry. Facts were still facts, and Sarah wasn’t one to be intimidated with a glare.

“I refuse to prance about like a trained dog.”

“I doubt any bit of you could prance, Mr. Lang.” Sarah countered, smiling dryly. She thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch there, but perhaps she imagined it. She threw caution to the wind and touched his shoulder, wondering at the back of her mind what sort of work they’d put him to over in France, to bring about such solidness.

“I’ll hardly have you parading about the others, you know. Us two and the dishes, no audience.”

“D’you really think Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson would allow such a thing?”

“So long as you swear that you won’t rip open me dress and have me right there on the dining table, I think they will permit it, yes.”

“Christ, Sarah!”

Sarah allowed herself a sly cat’s grin as Lang flushed brilliantly like a boy, his eyes round in his head. She could have a load of fun with this one, if she wanted. Taking pity, she directed the conversation back to the matter at hand.

“It’s something,” she murmured, and she didn’t have to pretend at understanding here. “You an’ I, we’ve got no say in where our young men go to fight, or…or who will die when. We’ve no control over the great an’ terrible things, but we do have a say in whether or not you serve at meals and shut old Carson up.”

Lang held her gaze, those sad gray eyes searching her face for falsehood or mockery, and Sarah did not waver. He looked away, down at his big, idle hands, and sighed.

“When? Where?”

Sarah was buoyed on a wave of warmth, for once genuinely glad to be indisposed for another’s sake. She smiled and patted his arm.

“You leave that to me.”

It was a trial of heroic proportions to get old Carson to relent on the matter, but Sarah prevailed in the end, insisting that Mr. Lang would prove to be a perfect footman once he’d gotten over his stage fright. She insinuated, subtly, that it would be in the best interest of Mr. Carson’s health if he sat back and allowed the retraining to take place.

It helped that Mrs. Hughes was decidedly on their side, at least in regards to the preservation of Mr. Carson’s wellbeing.

And so it came to pass that Sarah found time for them to slip up to the dining room with their platters and plates, far from prying eyes. Andrew swallowed his embarrassment and set aside his misgivings in favor of pressing on, resolved in his heart to at least have a go, more for Sarah’s sake than his.

She, at least, seemed to be enjoying herself immensely; she’d lost no time in seating herself at the head of the great table, and he thought that she might be getting a kind of blasphemous thrill to be sitting where their master sat. He could remember Mrs. Durrow being the same way, back on Sir Lionel’s estate.

“Right, Mr. Lang; serve me as you would the Dowager Harpy.” Sarah said, sitting straighter and tilting her chin up at a comical angle. Andrew chuckled; out of every challenge she laid out before him, trying to picture Sarah as the Dowager would be the most difficult. She had stronger ties with reality that the old woman lacked entirely (all of them upstairs did, really), and was a fair sight prettier to look at besides.

“As you wish, m’lady.”

He took up the decanter and leaned close, pouring a steady arc of water into Sarah’s glass. She watched with a critical eye, tilting her head just the slightest bit to the side. The flash of her throat drew Andrew’s eyes, her skin strikingly pale against the black of her uniform. Unwittingly he edged closer, noticing for the first time the good, clean scent that seemed to be coming from her skin.

“That’ll be enough.”

Andrew started slightly to feel her hand on his, gently tipping the decanter back upright. He muttered an apology and turned to gather a platter, still preoccupied by that image of her curving neck.

The lesson went well, owing perhaps to the absence of hawk-eyed Carson and scarlet uniforms. Andrew ran the order and variation of the seating arrangements through his head as he helped Sarah gather up the tray and platters, the decanter and glasses. He carried them for her as they slipped out of the dining room and sought the service stairs, realizing at the last second that he was playing the schoolboy after all.

“You’ve done well, Mr. Lang. A time or two more should serve you well enough, I think.” She said lightly, holding the green-baize door open for him. Andrew nodded absently, focusing his attentions on the faintly rattling glassware he carried- he wouldn’t be able to bear the dressing-down a broken glass would get him from Mr. Carson.

“Just remember that it’s always to the left, least in most cases. I suppose we could throw in a few characters of higher rank, just for practice’s sake.”

Andrew listened to her as they started down, his eyes occasionally drifting from his burden to watch her. He found himself liking the proud set of her shoulders and the way her hair gleamed even in the poor light of the stairwell. He lingered, perhaps a little longer than was proper, on her neck, the tender curve of it. Again the contrast between pale skin and dark hair struck him. _Isn’t that a pretty sight?_

They reached the bottom of the seemingly endless stairs, and somehow Andrew felt disappointed when they left the final step behind; he liked having a friend again, and found himself greedy for Sarah’s company of late. It had been pleasant, to be able to snipe and laugh with her at leisure.

Unbidden, his thoughts came to the soft, untamed hairs at the nape of her neck. That nice scent was sure to be stronger there, he was sure, and what a wonderful little secret that would be.

“There you are, Miss O’Brien.”

Andrew heard Sarah swear under her breath, and they both turned to see Mrs. Hughes standing into the doorway to the servants’ hall, grave-faced and stern as always.

“What’s happened now?” Sarah asked bluntly, and Mrs. Hughes frowned slightly at the tone.

“Her Ladyship’s bell rang while you were off, Miss O’Brien, and quite insistently at that.”

“What, so early? She doesn’t sleep for another hour at least.”

Sarah was still, and Andrew saw all the insolence leave her face like water draining from a cracked cup. A sort of tender look was left behind, equal parts worry and…

He glanced away, certain that it wasn’t for him to see. Her Ladyship was likely lonely, he was sure, and whatever confidences she shared with Sarah, whatever bond was nourished, none of it included him.

“I’ll be along presently. You know where everything goes, Mr. Lang?”

“Of course.” He murmured, stifling the sudden spark of resentment towards the upstairs lot in general. Mrs. Hughes nodded in satisfaction and went back into the hall, and it gave Andrew an opportunity to lay down his burden for a moment. Sarah was turning away from him already, eager to hurry to her lonesome mistress; throwing aside caution, Andrew reached out and touched her elbow, halting her just ask she was going up. Irritated, she glanced up at him and arched her brows.

“What is it? Her Ladyship’s waitin’.”

“I want to thank you for helping me. I can’t imagine why you’re doing it, but I am grateful.” he said plainly, and there was a question tucked somewhere within those words. Sarah’s mouth twitched and she glanced away. For a few seconds he was certain she would not answer him.

“It’s good to have someone t’be good to.” She murmured. She was gone in the next instant, her skirts rustling as she disappeared into the upper floors. Andrew watched until her footsteps faded from hearing, then turned and brought the tray back into the servants’ hall.

_It’s good to have someone to be good to._

***

As fate would have it, Andrew only had two more lessons before he was called upon to put his training to the test; Lord Grantham’s mother and sister would be arriving, of course, and a handful of Lady Grantham’s dearest friends besides, eminent ladies all. How one could have more than a half-dozen dearest friends, Andrew did not know, but he wasn’t up to questioning it.

Sarah, when told the news, had spent a very fraught couple of minutes cursing His Lordship, Lady Rosamund, His Lordship again, and the Old Woman in an interesting array of words he hadn’t imagined woman like herself would know.

It didn’t do much for his confidence.

When the time came Andrew donned the livery with hands he willed into steadiness, and he did his utmost to put from his mind the queer, dreadful chill deep inside his stomach. The world had narrowed down in his eyes, him here and everything else at the far end of a close corridor. He thought, in a dim and distant way, that it was stupid that he was so unnerved by the idea of serving the upstairs lot a bit of fish and sauce.

Yet he knew, as he adjusted the neat black jacket over his shoulders, that it was bigger than that. Much, much bigger. It would show them all if he wasn’t too broken to find his way back into the normal world. A test to see if he could hold himself together the way a proper Englishman ought to do.

“It’s nearly time.”

Andrew’s heart lunged in his chest at the sudden intrusion, but the rest of him did not start too badly, and the rush of dizzy fear did not flash through him.  He turned towards the door, and of course it was Miss O’Brien standing there, her hands working nervously in the folds of her skirts.

“S’pose it is.” He agreed.

They left for the stairs together, neither one saying a word. Andrew only had to glance to the side and see Sarah’s tense shoulders and fidgeting hands to know that she felt the gravity of the moment as much as he did, and the thought inspired a great rush of tenderness in Andrew, so potent that a younger man might have mistaken it for love.

The others- Daisy and Anna and Carson- caught him up and thrust the damnable tray into his hands the moment he and Sarah reached the staircase, and Andrew tried to ignore the way his guts seemed to be knotting themselves up.

“Mr. Lang, I trust you have sufficient mastery of yourself tonight?” Mr. Carson inquired, his tone as crisp and inviting as a hard frost. Andrew merely nodded, unable to look into the hawkish face. The younger women looked at him in sympathy before gliding off like comets back into the safety of the kitchen. Sarah remained despite the butler’s pointed glances and put her warm hand up between Andrew’s shoulders, holding it there. Strangely, it put Andrew in mind of the old times when Frank would give him a great walloping clap on the back, a rough and masculine love-touch that conducted courage and comfort like copper wire conducted electricity.

He relaxed a little.

“It’ll be fine, Mr. Lang. I’ll eat every needle in my sewing box if it goes otherwise.”

“I suppose I’ll have to do my best then, for your sake.” He said weakly, and tried to chuckle. Then Mr. Carson cleared his throat and led the way upstairs, and Andrew threw one last look over his shoulder before following him, the tray steady in his grasp.

Andrew’s skin felt clammy when he and Carson entered the dining room, a feeling that only intensified as the lord and lady and their guests filed through the doors and took their seats. Somehow the dishes were brought to the table without crisis, but Andrew was certain the fatal cock-up would soon be coming. Gravy gone awry, perhaps, always a specialty of his, or perhaps he’d manage to drown someone in the wine this time. It would come.

The valet held himself in state of granite-like stillness every time he approached the table, waiting and waiting for the hammer blow that would reveal him to be a ruin of a man before everyone, confirming their every suspicion.

And yet, two courses later, the blow had not fallen. He hadn’t had so much as a tremor all evening, and had offered what needed offering and had drawn no attention to himself. Lady Edith had even caught his eye and gave him that unpracticed little smile of hers, nodding just the slightest bit in encouragement.

Andrew glided away from the table and paused at the sideboard, breathing deeply to muster himself as he took up the wine decanter and turned again to the table and it glittering occupants.

Silent and grave-faced Andrew made the circuit about the table again, moving unnoticed behind the seated aristocrats. The murmur of conversation washed over him as a river’s waters might wash over a stone, and his hand was steady as he poured out the jewel-bright wine. When he came to the foot of the table Andrew paused and glanced over his shoulder at the great double doors of the dining room. One hung open just a few inches, affording him a glimpse of a pale face and keen blue eyes.

Andrew smiled, and was smiled at in turn. Nodding, he turned back to his work and topped off the Dowager’s glass.

For the next half hour or more Andrew alternated between making his rounds among the diners and blending in against the wall until he was needed. Like a man with a secret, he kept glancing sidelong at the parted doors and every time, yes, yes, she was there, peering in at him and smiling, she was watching over him even now.

Somehow he hadn’t noticed the winding down of the dinner conversation, and as such the dinner’s finale came as a surprise to him. Andrew felt as though he were surfacing from the depths of a river, a little befuddled but glad to be in the free air again. When they all left the lofty, lovely dining hall Andrew noticed with some disappointment that Sarah had vanished, though Andrew had little time to reflect on it in the flurry of coats and genteel crooning that was part of the after-dinner ritual. He and Carson saw to the departing guests with dignity- yes, by Christ, he had _dignity_ again!- and were given leave to retire until they were called again. Carson, of course, would linger on a bit, but he found time enough to pat Andrew’s shoulder in a fatherly sort of way and murmur a few approving words. It brought Andrew back to the day he’d first seen the giant of a man in Sir Lionel’s foyer nearly thirty years on now, and how he had looked up and up and up into that grave face.

For many long moments Andrew stood just outside the door that would bring him back into the downstairs world, somehow both drained and exultant from the evening’s events.

He’d done it, by Christ! He had control again, if only for the length of one meal, and if he could get _that_ much then surely he could get four hours of control, then eight or twelve or even an entire day, perhaps even an entire _week_ …

Andrew smiled and went downstairs. He had to see her right now, right this very _second_ , and bugger the livery!

He descended into Downton’s insides, an ant in its teeming hill, and he scarcely seemed to hear or see the others. Still carrying with him that queer feeling of triumph Andrew stepped out into the kitchen yard and spied Sarah O’Brien resting at one of the worn worktables, nearly vanishing in the gathering darkness. She glanced up at the sound of his footfalls and favored him with a slow, pleasant smile.

“Feelin’ a bit better now?” she asked, stretching lazily like a cat and standing to greet him. Feeling lighter of spirit than he’d had in ages, Andrew nodded and managed a smile that for once didn’t feel foreign to him.

“I don’t feel half so worthless. It’s pathetic that being able to hold a tray steady should make me feel that way, really.”

“Hardly pathetic. You’ve made progress, an’ there’s no crime in bein’ happy over it.” Sarah said lightly, reaching out to pat his arm. He laid his hand over hers without thinking, full to the brim with gratitude towards this woman.

“Thank you, Sarah. I could never repay you for what you’ve done for me these last weeks.” He whispered. Appearing flustered, the lady’s maid gave an uncertain smile and kept her hand on him.

“There’s nothing to thank me for.”

“I’d be out on the street if not for you. At the very least I owe you my job, possibly even my sanity, and I…”

He felt the words clutter in his throat, choking him into silence. It was vital that she know, that he made her realize just what she had given him, but his self-possession was fleeing him now. Robbed of words, Andrew clasped Sarah’s hands between his and squeezed gently. She stared at him as though he were mad, darted a wary glance towards the kitchen door but he couldn’t bring himself to release her yet.

 “No one’s helped me like this, not for a long time.”

He’d always been the one to hold things together, back there. The boys had looked to him of all people, for whatever damn reason, and he’d propped himself up as best he could for their sake, even though it was never enough. Sergeant Lang was the guardian, never the guarded.

Until now, that is.

Sarah smiled at that, small and sad, and she worked her hand in his until she could press his fingers.

“I do what I can, Mr. Lang.”

“Andrew.” He said. With a faint smile, he added. “You’ve been breaking into my bedroom for a while now; you may as well call me by my Christian name.”

She nodded, and her smile grew- Andrew noticed how lopsided it was, one side of her mouth rising higher than the other, as if she weren’t used to it.

“Andrew, then.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of the characters or settings described here, nor do I own the poems the opening lines and title come from.


End file.
